Child:
‘I dreamed I was a child again,’ Georgie whispered, her voice laced with wonder, ‘dreamt my daddy was alive, frolicking in the hay with me, the baby lambs. He gave me one as a pet, y’know. I called her Brenda.’
He burst out laughing, ‘Brenda?! You are joking, aren’t you?’
She giggled, ‘Course I’m not. I named her after my aunt in Brisbane if you don’t mind!’
‘Ah, course you did.’
‘Stop it!’
‘Sorry, just teasing.’
It was late morning, Georgie was still in bed, unwashed. It occurred to him that the water in the bath would have gone cold which meant all the fuss of running up and down stairs with saucepans of hot water, so that she could have her cat’s lick. Her hair was in a state, parted the wrong way, wet with perspiration at the tips. She’d started to sweat. Her skin was clammy from their body heat, adhering to his as they clung to each other on the bed. He was keen to show her the mill-pool, river walk, the woods where the couple lay among the toadstools. She breathed in his face. Her breath smelt of stale omelette,
‘After that I must’ve hallucinated.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Everything was weird, multi-coloured, psychedelic, flashing lights, flickering strobes, as if I were at a rock concert.’
He thought of his amazing trip to the benefit gig, The Greasy Trucker’s Party in Camden, to watch Hawkwind perform live. Their incredible light show. The band epitomised his values – free drugs and free love. Only last week, their dancer, Stacia, had stood on stage before him in her short starry night sky frock blowing bubbles as they played Silver Machine at Guildford Civic Hall. Far out! Perhaps Georgie would dance with him in the aisles next time they went on tour.
‘I found myself in a wood,’ she said mysteriously, ‘a strange, enchanted wood.’
The mention of the word ‘wood’ roused him, ‘How did you know it was enchanted?’
Georgie pinched his nipple, it hurt, ‘If you stop interrupting me and listen, I’ll tell you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop saying sorry!’
She resumed, ‘I was standing by a green pool. The wood was full of pools, each a different colour: red, yellow, green, blue, purple, rainbow. They stretched into the distance as far as I could see. I had no idea what it meant. I jumped into the nearest pool. Strange, I don’t remember getting wet.’
‘You jumped?’
‘Mmmn,’ her voice had taken on a dreamy quality, far, far away, fading…
‘Like Polly and Digory!’
Georgie shook the fuzz out of her head and tried to concentrate, ‘Yep…Like who?!’
‘Have you read The Magician’s Nephew by C S Lewis?’
‘Can’t say I have,’ she shrugged, ‘Why?’
‘It was my favourite book when I was a boy. My only book. I still read it today. In the story, two children: Digory, the magician’s nephew, and Polly, his only friend, travel to other places using magic rings. But to reach the other places they must first pass through a wood, a wood between the worlds.’
Georgie rubbed her eyes. She’d had a late night, an even longer morning,
‘What’s all this got to do with me?’
He cut her off, ‘Let me finish. The wood was full of pools. To reach the other worlds, they had to jump into a pool. Each pool led to a different world! Can’t you see? That’s where you went, Georgie. In your dream. Where did you go? Where did your pool take you to?’
He would never forget what she told him next for the rest of his days. She spoke, hazily, as if she were in a trance,
‘I floated in her waters, inside my mother’s womb. I felt safe and warm inside her, happier than I’ve ever been, ever will be, tethered by my mum’s umbilical cord. Her baby. I felt myself turn, invert inside her, head down, eyes shut, shoulders back then…’
She was weeping now, gently, onto his face,
‘Brace yourself, Georgie, brace yourself, girl’, I told myself. I felt her give me an almighty push, then I shot out of her.’
Time:
Happy, content, contemplating her deceit, Georgie lay on the bed cradling his head to her chest, ruffling his hair. He told her about the time his father died of a coronary away from home. The time his mother went to pieces and tried to commit suicide with sleeping tablets. The day she was admitted to the mental hospital nestled among the sweet chestnut trees, never to come out. The warm autumn afternoon, when he watched the couple make love on a blanket in the woods, surrounded by fungi. His obsession with toadstools, magic mushrooms. The time he administered his deadly concoction to the girl, in pursuit of her all-time high,
Georgie interrupted him, ‘We all make mistakes, me more than most. I’m sure she’ll pull through.’
‘I tried to call her…’
‘She’ll be fine,’ Georgie insisted, sounding impatient, ‘What time is it?’
He checked his watch, ‘Coming up to one o’clock.’
‘One o’clock! I must go! I’m meeting a friend in Reigate at four.’
More panic!
‘Go? Go, why? Why can’t you stay here with me?’
‘She’s in trouble. She needs my help.’
‘What kind of help?’
‘Stop badgering me, will you? It’s none of your business.’
Georgie rolled out of bed, picking up her g-string as she skipped out of the room,
‘I need the loo. You can run me a bath if you like.’
‘There isn’t any hot water left, he said hurriedly, ‘I’ll heat some saucepans. You’ll have to have a cat’s lick.’
Georgie had forgotten how poor he was. Her heart sank at the thought of what she was about to do to him. She loved this man, wanted his child, just needed to sort her head out.
‘Come here,’ she said, hugging him, ‘I love you, but I really must go. What’s a cat’s lick?’
He sighed deeply, relieved beyond words: she still loved him, after all that he’d confessed,
‘It’s a head-to-toe wash with a flannel,’ he grinned, ‘You’ll love it, Georgie. Promise!’
‘What am I going to do with you?!’ she mocked, disappearing into the bathroom.
He scampered off to the kitchen. Half an hour later, they bid each other a fond farewell on the doorstep. She turned away from him, unable to tell the unbearable truth to his face.
Georgie reached as far as the garden gate, stopped, and glanced at him, over her shoulder,
‘I have to return to Oz. I’m flying out tonight. I’ll write.’
She left his life, fading into the distance, her head down, not once daring to look back.
He slammed the door shut and slumped to the cold-tiled floor:
An empty shell of a man.
*****
He found the air mail lying on the front doormat seven weeks later. The envelope bore a red stamp featuring a grey kangaroo. Beside himself with excitement, he slit it open, took out the sheet of blue paper, and read:
Sweetest,
I wanted to let you know I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I enjoyed myself. I had fun.
I’ll always love you,
Georgie
He felt as if she had just stabbed him in the chest, crying like a wounded animal, searching for her face, her heart, her love, in the darkest recesses of his mind: a lair, in which to die. He had failed his A Levels, lost his job, and lost her. He no longer had anyone to live for.
